The Loss
by MarySkater
Summary: Erik loved music, and he loved Christine. To have both seemed perfect happiness. But if one of his loves was snatched away, would the other be enough?
1. Chapter 1

THE LOSS

 _Author's note: This story is mainly based on Leroux, but I have compressed the events following Christine's kidnap from the stage during Faust._

The Opera House roared with applause as the cast took their bows. One of the managers came on and presented Christine with a beautiful bouquet. She accepted it gracefully, drew a single white rose from it and gave it to the tenor who had sung Faust. He bowed over her hand as he took the rose.

The curtains fell, but the applause continued. Some of the other cast members nudged Christine forward, while others held back a curtain so that she could step out again. "Give them one more, Christine," whispered the girl who had played Siebel, "or we'll never get out of here tonight!" Christine giggled, then smoothed her features to a more dignified smile as she walked out in front of the curtains and took her final bow alone as the applause thundered even more. She never tired of this, and she took care to ration her performances, so that the audiences would not tire of _her_. A successful singer needed many skills.

Her eyes scanned over the hundreds of faces, wondering where Erik was, knowing she would not see him. He no longer insisted on using Box 5 when she performed. He had told her that, though it was an excellent place to listen from, it had a poor view of the stage, and he wanted to see her as well as hear her. These days, he had many masks and disguises which let him sit unnoticed in the crowd, in the balcony or orchestra seats. But if the whim took him, he might be up in the flies, or working the lights. She glanced briefly at the gloriously painted ceiling and its magnificent chandelier. No, probably not there, not this time.

But it was time to pay attention to her job, and that included not milking the applause for too long. Still smiling, she left the stage, ignoring other flowers which were thrown. She had let it be known that she accepted no gifts from strangers, but there were always some who hoped to attract her attention.

Still floating on the excitement, she made her way to her dressing room, exchanging words of thanks and goodnights with the other cast members and staff whom she passed. Then, after changing into street clothes, she walked down to the back door of the Opera House. There she met the stagehand who always escorted her home. It was not far; round a corner, across one street and a short way along another, and she was at the entrance to her building. She thanked her escort, who was a little shy in the presence of the prima donna, but seemed to think he should make conversation. "Are you comfortable here?" he asked tentatively. "They tell me your apartment is in the basement…"

"It's very quiet," she answered. "I work late at night, sleep late in the morning. But my room is at the back, so the street noise does not disturb me. It took me some time to find a place which suited me, but this is perfect." She smiled and wished him goodnight, then greeted the concierge who guarded the entrance, and carried on down the stairs to her door, humming the music from that night's performance. Marguerite. Whenever she sang that role, she always remembered the dramatic occasion when Erik had snatched her from the stage, remembered her anger and fear. His near madness, the tormented cries of Raoul and the strange Persian man in the torture chamber, Erik's dire threats to blow them all up along with the Opera House. Menaced by such a disaster, she had had to yield to him, and yet… and yet… even though he had won, she could still pity him. How could she have known that that pity would be a stronger weapon than any of his? But even as she remembered the pain of that night, she also remembered her joy when he had let her go. All of that, the bad and the good, was burned forever into her memory…

O-O-O

 _Note: Sorry for such a short first chapter, but it was just the way this story worked out. More tomorrow._


	2. Chapter 2

It had been strange to see him broken like this, he who had been so strong. His voice was soft, defeated, as he gave them their freedom. He even walked with them part of the way, guiding them on the safe path out of his domain. Then, leaving the lantern with them, he turned back into the darkness. Christine could never forget the sight of his stooped, thin figure, fading into nothingness.

Christine and Raoul stumbled into the fresh night air. There were still some stragglers on the street from the Opera audience, and they listened to conversations, trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. The lights had gone out, there had been confusion, eventually the opera had resumed with an understudy as Marguerite. A manager had apologised that Miss Daaé had been taken ill and was unable to complete the performance. So it seemed there was no scandal, no disaster. The world went on turning.

Raoul took Christine back to the apartment where she lived with her adoptive mother, Madame Valerius. He was dishevelled from his struggles, but she had the advantage of a cloak which she had retrieved from her room in Erik's house. Mama had waited up and remarked that they were late, but seemed oblivious to how they were dressed. She was getting old, and her mind tended to wander. After seeing Christine safely over the threshold, Raoul left, promising to return the next day.

True to his word, next afternoon he joined them in the flat, once more the polished gentleman, and sat opposite Christine. "Everything will be all right now, Christine. The nightmare is over."

"Yes, isn't it wonderful? And I've written to the Opera managers, and apologised for leaving them in the lurch like that. I told them that when everything went dark, I was frightened and ran away. I said I had been under a strain and needed a short rest, and then I wouldn't ever let them down again. They have such plans for me, for the new season!"

Raoul leapt to his feet. "But Christine, we are to be married!" He paced across the room and stood before her. "Surely you must see that you can never sing on stage again? It would be quite improper! And of course you no longer need the money. I will support you, give you everything you need."

And then the blazing row started, while Mama Valerius looked on silently from her chair by the fire. Standing up to face Raoul, Christine declared that her voice was a gift from God. Not to share it with others was to be like the servant in the parable who buried his talent and made no use of it, and was punished. Raoul was equally vehement that Christine was to be a Vicomtesse, and must live according to the rules of that position in society. She had imbibed wrong notions from the theatre people she associated with, and that must stop. Raoul was a serving officer in the navy, due to leave soon on a voyage of exploration. He had hoped that they could be married before he left. Now he saw that that was not possible. He would be gone several months, and in that time Christine was to live with his older sisters, and learn the duties and responsibilities of a noblewoman. Her voice rising to a banshee screech that would have astonished her Opera colleagues, Christine reminded Raoul that she had always said that she could never marry him, that they had just pretended to be engaged as a game until his ship was ready to leave.

"I am a free woman! You cannot make me a prisoner. If you don't like that, you can get out, and don't bother coming back!"

Affronted, he left, slamming the door behind him. Christine collapsed panting into a chair.

After a few minutes of silence, Mama Valerius levered herself out of her chair, went to Christine and tilted her face up. "No tears?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Christine's face, and she thought for a moment. "No. I see now, he is not worth my tears. He says he loves me, but you see how little he cares for my wishes. All he wants is to own me."

"Yes, men do that." The old lady settled back into her own chair. "They are brought up to think it is their right to own women, especially rich men of noble blood. If you do not want to be owned, do not marry such a man." Her eyes half-closed, her sudden burst of awareness draining away. "My own husband… well, you knew him, he was so kind. But still, I had to let him think he was right all the time…"

Christine stared at the fire. There was one other man who had tried to own her, and then… had stopped trying. She recalled how, after that first kiss, he had fallen weeping at her feet, and she had wept with him, their tears mingling. Poor, poor Erik. Surely he had been worth her tears…

She dragged herself to her feet. "I need to think, and I need to sleep. I know it's early, but I am going to bed."

As grey dawn crept over the city next morning, Christine resolutely went back to the Opera House and made her way down the passages Erik had taught her, the secret way to his house. The living room was empty, but the gaslights were lit. There was no point in looking for him if he did not want to be found. After a moment, she drew herself up and began singing Marguerite's aria from _Faust_ , which had been so dramatically interrupted the other night. In a few moments, the strains of an organ sounded, accompanying her as softly as possible for the large instrument. When she finished the song, Erik came into the room and paused, looking at her.

"Did you come back to say goodbye?" he asked wearily. "I am surprised the Vicomte permitted it."

Christine tossed her head. "The Vicomte has no right to command my actions, nor ever will have." She told the story of the argument, her voice growing more heated as she repeated it. When she finally paused for breath, Erik waved her to a chair, and sat opposite her, watching her pensively. "I thought you wanted that boy," he said finally.

"I thought I wanted that boy," she agreed ruefully. "When I was a little girl, I dreamed of marrying him. I suppose all little girls want to be princesses. Now I understand that being his kind of princess means wearing chains. I shall not wear his chains, not even if they are golden. Do you recall Andersen's tale of _The Little Mermaid_? She sacrificed her voice in an effort to change worlds. Raoul can offer me nothing worth that sacrifice. Erik, it was you that I agreed to marry."

He waved a throwaway gesture. "I extorted that promise by threatening deaths if you refused – yours, my prisoners, my own, many others. I refute such a devil's bargain. Now, there are no threats. The gunpowder is ruined, the prisoners are free. I even sent a note of… apology? Well, explanation anyway, to the Persian. He should have known better than to sneak in here like that, but still, he saved my life in Persia, and helped me to escape from there. I owe him something for that. I do not owe anything to the Vicomte, but at any rate he is free now… and so are you. I shall not take advantage of you because you have been upset by a lovers' tiff."

"A _lovers' tiff!_ " she retorted angrily. "After all that I told you, is that all you think has happened?!"

"I… dare not believe that it is any more. And, if you do not want chains… you would find chains of a different kind, if you tied yourself to a man who dare not show his face in public."

Her expression softened. "But you can at least show it to me. You know your face no longer troubles me. Erik, I am due to perform next week. Will you teach me again, prepare me to do my best?"

"I…" Behind the mask, she saw his eyes close, and his head bent for a long moment. Finally, he raised it and looked at her again. "If you want me to, I have not the strength to turn you away."

And so a new time started. She visited him, learned from him. Now knowing him for a man and no supernatural being, she was not afraid to argue with him at times, and watched with pleasure as his spirit gradually reasserted itself. At her suggestion, he blocked the way which Raoul and the Persian had used to come to his house. He dismantled the torture chamber to please her, and made sure that there was always a safe, easy way for her to come to him. When she asked him, he stopped wearing his mask in her presence, and grew to believe that she accepted his face. But sometimes their conversation approached the tragic events which had afflicted the Opera in the past. He would try to make light of her questions, or plead innocence. Christine once asked him about the deadly fall of the chandelier. "Oh, that was not I. The fittings were old and worn. It was simply an accident."

"And it killed a person whom you wanted removed… who had been manoeuvred into sitting directly beneath it."

"Accident… coincidence…" he muttered, but she simply stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and his self-justification trailed off into silence. Another time, angrily, he retorted to her unspoken reproach. "You know the kind of man I am!"

"I know the kind of man you used to be. I believe… I hope you could become so much better. Instead of the Phantom of the Opera, you could become the Guardian of the Opera, a force for good instead of evil." He turned and walked out of the room, and she did not see him again that day, but when she came back next day for her lesson, he made no reference to his hasty exit.

Their next argument came when he airily mentioned a scheme he had for blackmailing the Opera management to change their programme for the forthcoming season, to feature works that would better showcase Christine's voice. She protested that she wanted to advance her career by her own merits, not as a result of coercion.

"You wanted me to be helpful to the Opera company," he snapped. "You may have noticed that there have been no disastrous accidents, no mysterious deaths since the day you said that. If I make use of the memory of such things, and the fear of their recurrence, that is only logical. The managers know nothing of opera, and need my guidance about what they ought to stage."

"Erik, I have to work with these people! After what happened before, I am already suspected of being the Phantom's creature. If you go through with this scheme of yours, do you realise what spite, what jealousy will be aroused against me? You will make my position impossible!"

"If anyone dares to act against you, I will –"

"No one will have cause to act against me. Because, Erik, if you start blackmailing and threatening again, I will leave. I will give up singing. Raoul could not make me do that, but you could, if you act this way."

This time she was the one who walked out rather than continue the argument, and she stayed away for a few days. When she next went to see him, she had some news. "The managers have announced a change to the scheduled programme," she began. "We are going to mount _Otello_ at the end of the season. Everyone seems very happy about it. Apparently an opera patron, who wishes to remain anonymous, has offered a large donation to persuade them to do this."

"That's nice," Erik said mildly. "You will make a good Desdemona."

Christine's brow puckered. "They may not cast me," she replied thoughtfully. "There were, it seems, no strings to this donation, no conditions apart from the opera to be performed."

"But who else could do it? Since Carlotta moved to Madrid, there is no one else whom the public would accept in the role. Well, we have time enough to work on it. You will be excellent."

"Do you know what the gossips are saying? Many of them think that the anonymous donor is really the Vicomte de Chagny, trying to make up his quarrel with me."

"Perhaps they are right," Erik replied blandly.

Christine stifled a laugh. Erik was trying to play innocent, and he really was not very good at it. But the money had come from the Opera in the first place. There was some justice in giving it back, and if Erik had chosen to use persuasion instead of force to achieve his aims, that was a step she approved of.

"Oh, Erik! You know very well that getting me a starring role is the last thing Raoul would do! And if he chose to put money into the Opera again, he _would_ make conditions!" Quickly crossing the room to him, she put her hands on his shoulders, reached up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you." Then, smiling at his obvious astonishment, she moved to the piano. "Come then, Maestro! We have work to do."

More and more often, Christine recalled what the music critic had said of her first triumphant performance after Erik had begun teaching her: "I can only imagine that Miss Daaé has learned to love!" Whether it was true then, she was not sure, but as she understood her heart better, she knew that it was true now. Erik had spoken no more of his love for her, but he did not have to, when she could see it in his eyes, feel it when his hand touched hers. And when they sang together, both hearts soared.

O-O-O


	3. Chapter 3

A year ago today they had been married. She was glad to celebrate the anniversary by singing Marguerite for him, for of course he had been there, listening and watching.

The apartment was empty and silent, but the lights were on, the rooms were warm, and there were fresh flowers everywhere, flowers that Erik had chosen because they were her favourites. The bouquet she carried, a routine gift from the Opera House managers, was showy but less to her taste. She took off her coat, put the bouquet in water, and looked around. Where was he? Still at the Opera House, leaving little notes for the managers? Or fetching home some special gift for her? She frowned a little. It could not be that; the shops were closed. Perhaps he had gone back to his old home beneath the Opera House to write down some melody or arrangement which had just occurred to him, and which had to be recorded immediately. Christine was tolerant of the foibles of her composer husband, but after all this was their anniversary…

Going through the kitchen to the pantry, she pulled a hidden lever. A wall of storage shelves swung out, revealing a long staircase descending into darkness. Taking a lantern, closing the secret door behind her, she descended the steps and began to make her way along the underground passage which led to the Opera House cellars. Not far along she paused, listening. There was a sound of water trickling. That was not right. Hurrying now, she carried on, then stopped in shock at the sight of a recumbent figure on the floor. Erik. Christine ran to him, knelt beside him and satisfied herself that he was breathing, his heart beating.

Water was running down the wall beside him and draining away somewhere, while several bricks lay scattered on the floor. A roof collapse? Perhaps a water pipe had burst somewhere above, and damaged the mortar. She looked up anxiously. No more masonry seemed to be coming down, but this was not a healthy place to linger. She turned her attention back to Erik. Blood from the side of his head was seeping from under his wig, but he was beginning to stir. He looked up at her, and tried to say something reassuring, but the words were slurred. She helped him to his feet and half-supported him back along the passage and up the stairs to the apartment. He shook his head several times as if to clear it, and did not answer her anxious enquiries except to say that he would be all right, he just needed to rest. Christine bound a hasty bandage round the oozing scrape on his head, and helped him to undress and get into bed. Then she went back along the tunnel to the roof fall. The water had slowed to a trickle, and she hoped the problem up above had been dealt with.

So much for celebrating their anniversary. It was not the first time she had had to tend minor injuries on a husband who thought himself indestructible, despite evidence to the contrary. How fortunate that he was wearing the wig – that must have cushioned his head somewhat. Erik had dropped quickly into a sound sleep, so with resignation Christine made herself a light supper and prepared for bed. She wondered briefly if she should sleep in the spare room to avoid disturbing him, but decided it would be better to be near him in case he needed her, and settled herself at his side.

She woke when daylight filtered through the curtains on the room's high windows. Erik was still asleep, and that was unusual. But his breathing seemed steady, and (she gently touched his hand) his skin was no colder than usual, so perhaps this rest was the best thing for him. She rose, dressed, and went to do something about breakfast. A little later he came into the kitchen, clad in a dressing gown, a strained expression on his face. "Good morning," she said over her shoulder. "How are you feeling? Would you like some coffee?"

He shook his head, rubbed his hands over his ears, and said, "What? Christine, speak up."

Puzzled, she turned fully to face him, and peered up at him. "Erik, what is wrong?"

"What are you saying? Say that again." He rested his fingers on her throat.

"Erik, what is it?" She was alarmed now. "Can't you hear me?"

"You _are_ speaking," he murmured. "But I cannot hear the words. There is a noise in my ears, a rushing, like wind in trees. Nothing else. Christine, sing something. Anything – a scale. But as loudly as you can."

Never before had he set her such a task without letting her warm her voice up properly, but clearly this was no time to argue. She straightened up, controlled her breathing, and sang as though she were filling the Opera House with her voice. Again he rested his hand on her throat, as though he needed the reassurance that she really was producing sound. When she finished, he slumped into a chair, his head bowed.

"Erik, do you mean – " Realising the futility of speaking to him, she seized the notebook she used for shopping lists, wrote, "Head hurt – deaf? – doctor!" and thrust it in front of him. He looked up at her. "No doctors. You know my mind on that subject. Christine… am I speaking properly? I cannot hear myself…"

"Yes, you – " stopping herself again, she nodded vigorously, and wrote "Your voice is fine."

"I suppose… concussion. It may take some days to clear. Christine, what happened in the tunnel? What hit me?"

Thinking quickly, she wrote, "Water leak. Bricks fell. Water now stopped."

He heaved himself to his feet. "I had better go and repair the damage."

She wrote "REST!" and underlined it so hard that the pencil broke, but he ignored her, collected some tools and went to the hidden door.

The day passed uneasily. Erik prowled, sometimes picking up a book but tossing it aside after a few minutes. In the afternoon, when he was accustomed to coach her singing, he called her to the piano, told her what to sing and played accompaniment. She did her best to obey him, but after a few minutes he slammed down the piano lid and stalked away to the hidden passage, leaving her feeling rather sorry for anyone in the Opera House who got in his way. Though he no longer spread death and disaster, he still wanted to rule the Opera House, and people who did not do as he wished might find nasty little tricks being played on them. Christine hoped to wean him away from these habits, but accepted that it would take a long time.

When he had gone, she went out in a more normal fashion, came home with some medical textbooks, and spent time studying them. Concussion – a few days rest should put that right, but getting Erik to rest was never easy. Deafness _could_ be caused by a blow to the head, and although the books said that in this case it was usually temporary, there were no guarantees. The noise in his ears which Erik had described was, she learned, called tinnitus. That was frightening, for it was perhaps possible that it would never go away. But it all seemed distressingly vague. Sighing, she left the books for Erik to read, with bookmarks on all the pages that suggested rest and quiet.

Days passed uncomfortably. Erik did sleep more than was usual for him, but she wondered if that was merely to alleviate boredom. Christine summoned his friend the Persian, who came and played chess with him sometimes, or brought some books in strange Oriental scripts for him to read. But Christine quickly became aware of resentment in Erik's eyes whenever she spoke to the visitor, even with a simple greeting or an offer of coffee. It was galling for him to see another man listening to her words. The Persian too was aware of tension. He came less often, and Erik did not encourage more frequent visits.

He could not coach Christine's singing, and now he would go out of the room when she was practising. He could not listen to music for his own pleasure, and he had little patience for books. He did go back to composing, working with pen and paper. Sometimes he would take part of a score to the piano and play it, but such attempts always ended with him storming off in frustration. Once he saw her looking sadly at him, and spat, "Yes, I know. When Beethoven went deaf, he said, 'I shall hear in Heaven.' But I have less faith in the hereafter than he did." She tried to offer a consoling embrace, but he evaded her and went out.

When Christine was working at the Opera House, between rehearsals she wrote what amounted to letters to him, telling him everything that was going on. At home, she kept paper and pencils in every room in the house so that they would always be handy if she wanted to tell him something. But this was too slow for easy communication. Erik would look over her shoulder as she wrote, trying to guess what she wanted to say before she had finished. With an effort, she concealed from him how irritating she found this. She had not realised how much she enjoyed his conversation until she was deprived of it. And she at least could talk to other people. He was cut off from everyone.

He stopped going to the Opera House, but went out after dark to walk the city. Christine worried that he might seek trouble, trying to burn off the frustration eating at him, or might be involved in a simple accident through not hearing vehicles on the street. When he came home very late, she would wait up for him, and coax him to bed so that she could show him how much she loved him in the way that surely needed no words. But even then his embraces seemed mechanical, something done to oblige her, while his mind was elsewhere, as if he had gone to some dark place where she could not follow.

O-O-O


	4. Chapter 4

It was nearly two weeks after the accident that he finally consented to see a doctor. Christine had already asked advice about the best specialist available, and briefed him about what to expect before she went there with Erik. The consultant was efficient and businesslike. He asked Erik to remove his mask for a brief physical examination, and made no comment about his face. In preparation for Erik's questions, the doctor already had a number of words and phrases written on cards, and he enlarged upon these where necessary. But in the end, he could say no more than the textbooks had; Erik's deafness might pass off with time, but there were no guarantees.

The next day, Erik said to Christine, "I know you meant well, taking me to that doctor. But as you saw, Western medicine cannot help me. I think perhaps I should go back to the East. Not Persia – you know I cannot return there. But India, China – there are countries which were civilised when Europeans were still painting themselves with woad. They have deep understanding of how the body works. Perhaps there I can find help."

Christine nodded, and wrote, "When should we leave?"

"Oh, no. Not you. Such countries are no place for a Western woman. I must go alone."

She looked steadily at him, and her eyes filled with tears. Then she took the paper, and turned away so that he could not see what she was writing until she had finished.

"Erik, have you given up on France – or given up on life? Go East if you think it might help, but promise me you will come back. And if you cannot make that promise, then _tell me_. I beg you, do not leave me waiting for your return if it will never happen."

He took the page from her and read it through. Then he sighed, folded the paper carefully and put it away in an inside pocket. "I understand you," he murmured. "I shall try not to grieve you. Forget such thoughts now, and go to your voice practice. You are late. Do you want me to play accompaniment for you?"

After that, he seemed more settled. He said nothing more about going away, and he stopped his midnight prowling of the streets. He mainly stayed at home, taking over most of the housework from her. When she was practising songs for the Opera, he played piano for her, watched her breathing, and made suggestions about her facial expressions or gestures. But sometimes, when she knew that she had sung a wrong note, it hurt her to realise that he was unaware of it. He went back to his books, or tinkered with some clockwork gadgets he was building.

Christine saw him studying the score of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the masterpiece never heard by its composer, who was already deaf when he wrote it. Then Erik took up his sheets of manuscript paper again, and set to work. Was he rising to the challenge, to prove that he was no less a composer than Beethoven? But… Christine was not sure. Previously, when he was composing, he was utterly absorbed in his work, going without food or sleep, oblivious to her or to whatever was going on around him. Now, his approach was casual, giving it little more attention than she would to a piece of embroidery. And it had always been his custom to keep unfinished scores locked away in his desk any time he was not actually working on them, not letting her see them until he was satisfied. Now the pages lay spread out untidily in full view. She did not ask him about what he was doing, but on one occasion when he had gone out to buy some components for his clockwork mechanisms, she looked over the manuscripts. With dismay, she realised that there was no sign of his genius in these recent pages. The musical forms were standard, obvious, the sort of thing that might be produced by a student – and a mediocre student, at that. No wonder he treated this so heedlessly; it deserved nothing better.

Surely his deafness could not have destroyed his brilliance. Surely it was only that the lack of stimulus, his inability to hear what he was writing, had dulled his interest, so that he was giving the work little of his attention. When his hearing returned, so would his fire and originality. And – she forced herself to think of what was normally unthinkable – if his hearing never returned, nor his brilliance, then his composing would have to be regarded as a simple hobby. Again, she thought of herself doing embroidery, something which passed the time pleasantly, but produced nothing of great worth.

Christine left the pages spread out as he had left them, but deliberately did not try to replace them with pinpoint accuracy. When he came in, a glance would tell him that she had been looking at them, but he made no comment. After putting away his purchases, he busied himself with making a meal for the two of them. Later, he did spend half an hour on the music manuscripts, then pushed them aside and asked her if there were any tasks or small repairs that she wanted to have done in the apartment. Making life easy for her appeared to be his main interest now. She knew that he still carried the hasty note where she had begged him to tell her if he felt impelled to leave her forever, and apparently he wanted to reassure her that such a thing would never happen.

It seemed that he was always calm these days, and resigned to his deafness. His former anger was gone. He was tamed.

Christine was saddened by the change in him. When he had spoken of going to the East, she was terrified that, if he could not find a cure, he might kill himself. She could not bear the thought of losing her Erik. But when she looked at this polite, considerate, quiet man – it seemed that her Erik was already lost to her.

And then one evening, several weeks later, he was no longer tame. It was so unexpected. Christine sat sewing by the fire, quietly singing Desdemona's _Willow Song_ to herself. Suddenly Erik threw down his book. "For God's sake, Christine, if you are going to sing that, sing it properly! And you cannot sing it bent over your sewing like that! Can you not hear yourself?"

She gasped, and stared at him. "But _you_ can hear me!"

He sighed. "Well, yes. Not perfectly, but it is coming back. The roaring in my ears has faded in the last few days. Other sounds, real sounds, come through now."

"But why didn't you tell me?"

He looked embarrassed. "Superstition, I suppose. I was afraid to say I was better, in case I relapsed. My hearing is not perfect yet, but I am beginning to believe that it will be. Now, Christine, I find that you have been letting your vocal discipline slide. Shall we go to the piano? You can sing Desdemona to my Otello, and I shall try to repair the damage."

She smiled. "Not here. It's late, and we would wake the neighbours. I have a better idea. Let us go up to the roof of the Opera House. There, we can sing it full-voice. Let everyone know that the Phantom is back!"

O-O-O THE END O-O-O


End file.
